


Big Black Car

by Frontierland_Productions, WetSammyWinchester



Series: Season 16: The Dark Web [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Post-Season/Series 15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 00:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29742081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frontierland_Productions/pseuds/Frontierland_Productions, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WetSammyWinchester/pseuds/WetSammyWinchester
Summary: Welcome to episode one of Frontierland’s SPN Season 16, a fanworks collaboration!Sam and Dean find themselves under the uncomfortable spotlight of true crime podcasting, while Jody has to deal with a high-profile murder and asks for their help tracking down a werewolf. When they head to Sioux Falls, they uncover more than they bargain for, bringing to light parts of their own history as well as a mysterious support group.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Season 16: The Dark Web [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2187309
Comments: 26
Kudos: 70
Collections: SPN Season 16 by Frontierland Productions





	Big Black Car

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amberdreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberdreams/gifts).



>   
>  [Art masterpost by Amberdreams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29741859)   
>  [Big Black Car podcast](https://frontierlandproductions.tumblr.com/post/644226154840129536/for-the-first-time-sam-and-dean-are-free-but)   
>  [Season Playlist on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0hnxBfHbYLA7VAJUSLABAV?si=3765cf93fdaa43e7)   
> 
> 
>   
> So many thanks to the whole Frontierland crew - the most collaborative and creative group of fanworks creators anywhere - for their thoughts and the development of mytharc and fun MotW still to come. Special thanks to my betas: nigeltde for her guidance and support, and zara_zee for the last minute catches. You guys are the best.
> 
> At Frontierland, we love this show and decided to continue Sam and Dean’s story where 15.19 left off. New episodes will drop every second weekend from a collection of different writers and artists so follow the [Frontierland tumblr](https://frontierlandproductions.tumblr.com/) for notifications on the latest or more information about the project, and subscribe to our [AO3 collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Frontierland_SPN_Season_16).

* * *

  


_—not much is known of their early life in Kansas except for the tragedy of it. Their mother died in a house fire when Dean was four years old and Sam only six months old. Their father disappeared off the grid, taking his two young sons with him. According to Agent Victor Henriksen’s files, the FBI theorized that John affiliated with several survivalist movements in the Dakotas and Montana. He raised the boys to be experts in weapons and warfare, to hunt and to be hunted—_

“Sam Winchester.”

The unfamiliar voice scratches at the surface of Sam’s mind, echoing down the green and black tiles of the bunker hallway. Sam waits and listens.

“Dean?” he calls out. Concern creeps into him, chilling him in the same way as his bare feet on the concrete floor. He clicks the safety off his gun, just in case. “Dean! Where are you?”

“Sam! Get in here.” Dean’s voice is all it takes for him to break into a run. The kitchen doorway glows in a golden light, and Sam slows his run and skids into the room. Confusion hits - Dean stands at the cooktop with a spatula in one hand and a smile on his face. Something smells amazing. Sam hesitates in the doorway, looking over his shoulder at the other end of the hall, listening for the voice that called his name but it’s quiet, and Sam wonders if it was his imagination. Dean pulls him into the warm, bright kitchen. “Pancakes are ready!”

They’re stacked three high with butter with just the right amount of syrup. “No bacon either,” Dean says. His smile is contagious and Sam tucks the gun in his waistband. “C’mon, before they get cold,”

Mornings have always started this way: the two of them huddled together over coffee at a diner, greasy breakfast sandwiches out of a take-out bag in motel rooms, or more recently, hanging out in their own kitchen eating pancakes. The familiarity of it, the comfortable rhythm of their day, more than the food itself, is what feeds Sam.

Sam scoops up a forkful of pancake and Dean watches proudly before attacking his own food with a happy intensity. Sam starts to take another bite and notices a trickle of bright red blood running down Dean’s arm. He follows the tracks back up to a nasty cut on his brother’s forearm. “What happened?”

Dean looks down, dismissive of the wound before shoveling another bite in his mouth. “Vamp got me with a hunting knife.”

“What vamp?” Sam moves to sit next to Dean, confused by the comment, the cut, and the first-aid kit that appears in his hands. He can’t remember getting it out but he goes to work anyway, rolling Dean’s sleeve up and cleaning the cut.

“On the last hunt.”

“What hunt?” Sam tries to remember, but all he can think of is Chuck and his cocky smile, the mineral smell of the lake, the coppery scent of their blood as they fought him on the shore. When he focuses again, his fingers are already threading a silver needle into Dean’s skin. He makes the first prick, bringing the skin together carefully so it doesn’t pucker—

 _Agents Plant and Page..._ the strange voice calls out again from the hallway and then tapers off into mumbles that Sam can’t catch.

He frowns at Dean who is now focused on a laptop instead of a plate of pancakes. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Dean says. Sam’s chest tightens and loosens at Dean’s lack of concern as he scrolls through the screen. If someone were here, his brother would know it.

“You’re a little jumpy. Maybe you need a break,” Dean says.

When Sam looks down at his own hands, the needle he held now goes through plaid flannel - not flesh - with a neat row of stitches that repair a tear in the fabric. He sets the mending on a library table and blinks his eyes, wondering when they moved out to the library. The days without a case have blurred together for him but this is ridiculous.

His confusion is interrupted by Miracle barking in the map room. It’s as if the dog has always been here with them: white, fluffy, happy. He barks at Sam again and then begins to whine.

“Why don’t you take him outside?” Dean says, now flipping through a book on the table.

“Why don’t _you_?” Sam replies, not as irritated as he wanted to sound. If Dean keeps feeding Miracle table scraps, he’s going to get fat. Miracle barks once more and Sam stands up, looking around for the dog’s leash. Before he can find it, Miracle runs off down the hall, away from the front door. “Where is he going now?”

As Sam turns the corner, Miracle is nowhere to be found. The hall is dark and there is no sound, only an insulated feeling like Sam is wrapped in cotton webbing and must push his way through. He walks cautiously and tries to flip a light switch but nothing happens. “Hey, Dean, you need to hit the circuit breaker,” he calls back over his shoulder.

Red emergency lights come on and Sam holds his breath, waiting for Dean to call out. This isn’t real, he thinks, comforting himself. Just a dream. Yet he’s still worried about Miracle - Dean would be devastated if anything happened to that dog now.

The odd voice murmurs again, and it draws Sam down another row of rooms. It’s the same doors, same brass numbers, same green and black tile, but Sam is sure that he’s never seen this wing before. The voice now whispers, and he tries to focus on the words - _you would think we were talking about the men in black, but trust me, they’re real_ \- but he shakes his head at his inability to make sense of it. He stops in front of a room - the same number as Jack’s empty room, he thinks with a pang - and the door swings open. But when he steps through, it’s not the bunker but an empty motel room. Two queens with messy sheets and weapons spread out on a table next to Dean’s duffel. A glint of reflection catches his eye as a whisky bottle on the floor rolls and hits his foot. The motel room walls seem to move in on him as the voice talks about _rockstars and comic books_. In a panic, he runs out the door and into the bunker hallway. Around the far corner, Sam hears the dog barking.

He moves forward silently but it’s as if the hallway lengthens as he walks towards Miracle. A pulsing purple light comes out of the first room. Cluttered work tables, shelves lined with bowls, mason jars filled with unidentifiable objects, a locked bookcase with old manuscripts. Herbs are hanging from hooks to dry and strange flowering vines climb the dark corners of the room, entwined with the cobwebs there. A greenhouse in the dark, Sam thinks, that’s odd.

Converting one of the storerooms to an apothecary with shelves and tables to organize their supplies was a project that Sam had on his to-do list for a long time, along with starting a herb garden in a patch of empty field next to the bunker. However, these things took a backseat to actual cases and actual people. He trailed his hand along the nearest table and spots a note written in Rowena’s recognizable flourish on a scrap of paper. The penmanship is impeccable but the words are all a jumble. Outside in the hall, Miracle is barking again, more urgently than before, so he shoves the note in his pocket and reluctantly leaves.

Ahead of him, a red EXIT sign shines steadily in the dark, and Miracle attentively sits at the door. When the dog sees Sam, he wags his tag and barks again.

“Good boy. How did you find all this?” he asks as he leans down to rub the dog’s ears. “Let’s get you outside.” A light seeps under the threshold of the door, bright white. Sam glances behind him, but the hallway behind him has gone pitch black. As he reaches for the doorknob, Miracle growls in a way that Sam’s never heard.

Once again, he hears the strange voice clearly: _Who are Sam and Dean Winchester?_

He throws the door open and raises his arm to block a blinding white light.

  
  


* * *

Sam jerks upright, out of his dream and into the morning sunshine. A cool wind blows through the open car window and he rubs his hands across his face, hoping to wipe the residual confusion away. He glances over at Dean who glances back.

“Bad dream? Been a while, hasn’t it?” Dean says.

Sam’s eyes drop to the fresh scar on Dean’s forearm with its neat stitches and he exhales. There was a vamp in Des Moines. No nest, just a lone bloodsucker, an easy hunt, but it knifed Dean’s arm before Sam could chop its head off.

He tucks his hair behind his ears, trying to relax as the road rumbles beneath them. The cornfields stretch to the horizon, and the earthly green smell fills the car through the open windows. The stalks look alive, swaying and surging as if the field were an ocean and the Impala was a ship, cutting its way through.

After spending weeks underground in the bunker, the open road feels good. It feels familiar. The long, straight asphalt rolls up and down past more cornfields and worn farmhouses with the morning sun bright on the horizon.

The road may be the same, but this hunt was different. The first one after Chuck, after Cas, after Jack. No world-ending emergency on the horizon. Just the two of them in this car, doing what they do best - hunting.

A new feeling sits warm and heavy in his chest; it’s a physical thing nestled deep between his heart and his lungs. Is it happiness, contentment? Those were always fleeting for him and Dean as they moved from case to case. They lost a lot of people - everyone really - but they are still here. Together.

Examine good feelings too closely in the bright sun, and they might evaporate, Sam thinks as he shifts in his seat.

“You okay, Sammy?”

Sam looks across the front seat. Despite the concern in his voice, Dean’s lips are turned up. Sam knows all of Dean’s smiles - joking, sarcastic, relieved, extremely pleased with himself - but this smile is different. Like the feeling that sits under Sam’s ribs, it’s hard to place for a moment.

“You look happy,” Sam says absently, and Dean looks over. His forehead wrinkles at the odd comment and then smoothes.

“Guess I am.” The wind ruffles Dean’s hair, grown longer since Chuck’s defeat, and he turns back to the road. “We’re coming up on that diner right before Highway 36. How about stopping for pancakes?”

“Sure,” Sam says, smiling as he thinks of his dream again. Dean and his cheerful approach to breakfast foods continue to be his constant.

He looks down at his phone and the podcast he started before he fell asleep. It was a new show from Emily Ramirez, a female podcaster whose first program, _Strange Cases_ , looked at violent and unexplainable deaths, intertwining the case details with local rumors of the supernatural. Not surprisingly, the first season had a few cases Sam recognized: missing campers and a wendigo legend in northern Montana, and purported werewolf sightings along the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Even one of Sam and Dean’s early cases made her list: the vengeful water spirit in Lake Manitoc.

Her theories about the murderers and methods were amusing, with some that were way off the mark but many that skirted the truth. Sam was impressed. Even more impressive was that Emily had found new cases and bits of lore he had never seen before.

Due to their late-night vamp adventures, Sam hadn’t heard a word of the new podcast before he dropped off to sleep in the front seat. He sticks his earphones back in and fumbles with his phone to reset the first episode to the beginning.

“Another one of your dorky podcasts?” Dean prods, a teasing smile on his face.

Sam starts to respond with an eye roll but returns the smile. “It’s called Big Black Car.”

“Huh. Well, they got good taste in names.”

“Hey, is this the place with the omelets?” Sam asks as the restaurant comes into view over the next rise. Not much to the town other than a four-way stop with a diner and a gas station but Dean’s eyes light up.

“And maple bacon,” Dean replies. “Why don’t you order pancakes and I’ll get the waffles and we can swap?”

* * *

The silence and the sunshine feel good when they walk back outside—bright blue sky and a quiet stretch of road ahead of them that leads to home.

No searching for Chuck. No running from Billie. No worrying about Jack. And Cas... the sharp edges of grief are still there. They’ve dulled a little over the weeks while Dean puttered around fixing pipes or carburetors, and Sam tidied up the library and storerooms. Despite the distractions, there is still an empty hole there and will be for a long time.

The bunker is quiet without Jack or Cas. They weren’t particularly noisy but Sam was used to hearing Cas’s footsteps in the library late at night or the murmur of Jack’s television when he walked by his room. His earlier dream bubbles up - the apothecary room with its climbing vines and hanging herbs. He taps on the Impala’s roof to get Dean’s attention. “Hey, let’s stop at the hardware store on the way home. I want to pick up a few things. Thinking about putting in an herb garden out back.”

“Sounds good, Martha Stewart.” Like Sam, Dean turns his face towards the sun and closes his eyes for a moment before they climb in. Dean starts up the car and backs out onto Highway 36, and Sam puts his earphones on and settles in for the ride home.

_—Based on interviews with victims and law enforcement that we interviewed for our other podcast, Strange Deaths, two men are mentioned again and again. The physical descriptions of these two people are always the same but the names change, some of which are laughably recognizable - Plant and Page, or Banner and Stark._

_Some survivors or law enforcement officers claim they are brothers; others say coworkers. Are these two killers or heroes? What we heard across these reports is confusing, but it’s clear that these are the same men._

_Through a leaked FBI report, we found two brothers long thought to be dead who appear at the periphery of many of the gruesome and unsolved murders we’ve covered. According to the government, these two men may be the worst serial killers that no one knows. According to other people, they may be the thing that stands between us and the monsters in the night._

_Welcome to Big Black Car, the podcast. I’m your host, Emily Ramirez, with my producer, Ezra Monroe. In the next ten episodes, we’ll explore more—_

“What the fuck,” Sam shouts, his eyes wide as he yanks the headphones off. “Dean! Stop the car. Pull over.”

“We’re not that far from home.” Despite the protest, Dean pulls over on the gravel shoulder. “I think you can wait—”

Sam frantically waves him off and rewinds the podcast then cranks up the volume on his speakerphone. Dean’s lips thin as he listens. Sam hits play again on the last fifteen seconds of the podcast and puts it on speakerphone.

— _The FBI has asked. Local police have asked. Now, this season, we’re going to ask: who are Sam and Dean Winchester?_ —

“What the hell,” Dean says when Sam stops it.

“I don’t know. How would they know about—”

“No, seriously, Sam - what the hell.”

“We need to get home _now_ ,” Sam says, looking over his shoulder, relieved to see only empty blacktop behind them.

The warm, full feeling from earlier has dispersed with a cold shot of adrenaline as Dean steps on the gas and the gravel under the tires sprays out behind them.

Sam should have known that happiness never lasts, not for the Winchesters.

* * *

_—Doug Stover has seen some strange things from his time as a deputy sheriff in Hibbing, Minnesota. He was involved in two cases that we will cover today, the Costume Murders and the Black Market Organ case. We met at a coffee shop upstate in the Duluth mall where Doug does private security now._

_“When you join the force, you expect to help people. Not shoot a teenager in the chest or get bitten in the neck by a… perp,” he says._

_“Is that why you left the force?” Emily asks. “The violence? The lack of answers?”_

_“I left the force because I couldn’t help, not in any way that really counted.”_

_In his first interview about both of those cases, he has nothing but praise for Sheriff Donna Hanscum and her investigations. Sheriff Hanscum declined to be interviewed for this show but we obtained some of the case files through the Freedom of Information Act._

_Once again, two men were seen in both cases that fit our physical descriptions and drove a black 1967 Chevy Impala. When we asked Doug offhandedly about the Winchester brothers, we got a surprising reaction._

_“Oh, you mean Sam and Dean?” he says. “You can ask me anything else about those cases but let’s just leave those boys out of this.”—_

* * *

When they arrive home, Sam places his phone on the library table, listening on speakerphone, scribbling down notes of who’s been interviewed and what information’s been shared, while Dean scrolls through the podcast’s website and Facebook group.

“These nerds are good,” Dean says with grudging respect. “They even found Doug, poor guy, and that monster meat-market case. Black market organ transplants? Nice official cover-up for a rogue FBI agent feeding a bunch of heart and liver-eating monsters living in their mom’s basement. But seriously, Sam - maybe you’re overreacting. Who really listens to these podcasts anyway?”

“Depending on the podcast, thousands of people, Dean,” Sam says as he shoots Dean the you’re-an-idiot look. “The true crime community can be very involved. We need to be more careful.”

“True crime community, huh?” Miracle has taken up his spot next to Dean’s chair as they work, and Dean sneaks the dog a piece of his sandwich under the table. “Looks like the host, Emily, lost her mother under mysterious circumstances. Join the club, lady.”

The secret FBI file mentioned in the podcast trailer sounds a lot like Victor Henriksen’s notes, right down to his Bonnie and Clyde comment. Dean glances up at Sam as the second podcast recounts what the FBI knew about their life as kids, calling them outcasts, survivalists, gravediggers, even domestic terrorists.

“Old news,” Dean grumbles. “Although domestic terrorists? That’s a new one.”

Sam’s cell phone alerts and he looks at the screen. _Jody_.

“Hey, Jody—” he says.

“No time for niceties,” she replies. “We need to talk.”

He straightens up and puts the phone on speakerphone for Dean to hear.

“I have a nasty werewolf in town. Again,” she says. “Last night, it ripped the throat out of the governor’s favorite cousin so I’m under a lot of pressure to solve this quickly, plus there’s some stranger named Emily sitting outside my office trying to get me to do a podcast on our old zombie case of all things.” She sighs heavily. “This has not been a good day.”

“I guess not,” Sam replies. “What can we do to help?”

“You boys could take this werewolf off my hands and off the books?” she says, hopefully. “I’d do it myself, but if there’s someone sniffing around our old cases, I gotta handle PR and the grieving first family of Sioux Falls. I’d rather be hands-off.”

“Makes sense,” Dean says. “We can be there in five to six hours, Jody. We’ll call you when we get into town. And don’t talk to that podcaster, okay? We’ll explain more when we get there.”

Dean shuts the laptop and stands up, but Sam hesitates as he hangs up the phone.

“Going to Sioux Falls isn’t such a smart move,” Sam says. “A podcaster named Emily showing up to interview Jody, and another case? We should probably lay low, maybe call in another hunter.”

Dean shrugs. “You’re probably right. But it’s Jody,” he says. “Gotta help the friends we still have. Ready in twenty?” Dean doesn’t wait for Sam’s answer, energized by another case after weeks of doing nothing.

Sam sighs. “Right behind you.”

* * *

_—Perhaps one of the saddest and strangest episodes we’ve covered for this show is the Peterson family. A successful and devout family of four, the Petersons moved away from the big city after the mother suffered major injuries in a car accident. But what started as a return to a simpler way of life ended in child abuse, murder, and rumors of Satanism and witchcraft._

_Neighbors were told that the daughter, Magda, died the previous year, but in reality, she had been imprisoned in a basement, shackled to an altar, by her family. After the mysterious deaths of several civil servants charged with looking into the family, two more CPS officials showed up to investigate and discovered Magda still alive. After her mother was arrested for the deaths of her husband and son, Magda was placed on a Greyhound bus in Ohio to live with her aunt in Oregon. She never arrived. Instead, her body was found inside a roadside rest area, shot in the head._

_The two CPS officials who took custody of Magda on the scene match a familiar description - one tall with long hair, one not-so-tall, both handsome and driving a black 1967 Chevy Impala. Digging deeper, we couldn’t find any record of these so-called CPS agents. Did Sam and Dean Winchester strike again? Who would be so cruel to rescue a young, abused girl and then kill her, leaving her body on a dirty bathroom floor in the middle of nowhere?—_

Sam punches the pause button on his speakerphone and shakes his head. “Magda is dead?”

He scrunches his eyes closed and rubs his forehead as if he could physically remove the headache building in his skull. Listening to their old cases hasn’t been cathartic; it’s been miserable.

“We got her out of there,” he says. “She was free. I told her to call and never followed up. Who would want to kill _—_ ”

“I know, Sam. We can’t save everyone,” Dean replies. “You know that.” When Sam finally looks up, Dean watches him in concern. “We do the best we can, and we keep going.”

Sam’s laugh is bitter as recognition hits. “The British Men of Letters. Didn’t Ketch say he was sent to clean up our messes?”

“Well, Ketch is dead now,” Dean says.

“We fix one thing only to have another one break,” Sam says. Fatigue lands. He is tired of the way their stories loop back again and again to loss and death. This latest news sours the happy contentment that took up temporary residence in his heart yesterday. “With Chuck de-powered, I thought things would be... better I guess.”

“Hey, this—” Dean says and taps the phone on Sam’s lap. “This is all ancient history. It’s all BC - before we kicked Chuck’s ass. Okay?” He waits for Sam’s nod of agreement before he continues. “We are responsible for where our story goes from this point on. No one tells us who we are.”

* * *

Crossing Nebraska, they listen to two more podcasts including one on Dean’s supposed crimes and first death in St. Louis and another one that covered their crime spree and supposed deaths in Iowa. While the podcaster seemed aware of the legends of vampires, wendigos, and shapeshifters and their potential connection to these cases, she didn’t seem to know anything about the Leviathans. So when their Leviathan dopplegangers’ spree killings are recounted, it is laid solely on Sam and Dean. They should be used to it by now, how outsiders might view what they do, but hearing it all recounted and piled on top of Magda’s death is a lot to process.

He’s happy to put it all aside as Dean pulls in front of Jody’s crime scene.

The huge Victorian house is still blocked off with yellow tape woven around the trees in the front yard. Several forensic techs are chatting with Jody in the yard; one of them turns to stare at the Impala. Their big black car. The hair on Sam’s neck rises and Dean must recognize their problem at the same time. He curses under his breath as he throws the Impala in reverse. They circle the block and park a few streets over.

As they approach on foot, straightening their suit jackets, Dean nudges Sam. “We should probably split up. That show talks about how we’re always together, connected at the hip. And they keep calling us _the tall and the not-so-tall_ ,” Dean says, mocking the host’s particular accent. “That’s just crap journalism. Made us sound like Siamese twins.”

“It’s conj—”

“Yeah, yeah - _conjoined twins._ Whatever,” he replies and then peels away from Sam to head around the backside of the house.

Jody nods at Sam when he turns the corner and waves him over to her cruiser. “Where’s Dean? You’re not—”

“No, we’re fine,” he replies. Jody’s been around long enough to know some of their issues but they haven’t caught up with her since the latest Armageddon was averted. Another story they’ll tell her over a few beers, he guesses. “Dean went around back. What have you got?”

“Tully Johnson, local businessman and cousin to our newly-elected governor, was found dead this morning,” Jody says. “His mother came for a visit this morning to find his body propped up in his favorite chair, his heart ripped out of his chest.”

“Propped up?” Sam asks.

“That struck me as odd, too. The scene was laid out for maximum impact. It was obvious through tracks in the carpet that the body was dragged to the chair and that the chair was turned to face the front door. His heart was gone and the rest—” Jody wrinkles up her nose and indicates her own stomach and abdomen. “—were all pulled out. It’s like they were putting on a show. Margaret’s a strong woman but that’s something she will never get over."

Sam nods and notices an older woman waiting on the porch. Her eyes are red-rimmed and a long strand of gray hair has escaped her ponytail. She studies Sam for a moment and then her attention is pulled to something behind him.

“Oh, shit. It’s that podcaster,” Jody says, squinting over Sam’s shoulder. Coming up the front walk to the house is a woman, around thirty years old, curly brown hair, jeans, and a hoodie along with dark-rimmed glasses, toting a heavy canvas bag over her shoulder. Emily looks unthreatening and just like the picture on the Oddball Productions website. “What is she doing here?”

Margaret steps off the porch and Jody cuts across the lawn to intervene. Sam turns on his heel to face the other way and pulls out his cell phone to type out a quick text message to Dean - _We need to leave now_.

“This is an active crime scene,” Jody says but the victim’s mother interrupts her and shakes hands with Emily.

“You said you might have some information for me?” Margaret listens intently to whatever the podcaster is saying. Sam is far enough away that he can’t hear what’s being said but he spots Dean lingering behind a large oak tree, eavesdropping. Dean looks over at Sam with raised eyebrows and waves him off, nodding his head towards where the Impala is parked. Sam takes off.

As he waits, he leans against the car, feeling exposed as he checks out the street. It’s an upscale neighborhood with the houses set back from the sidewalk with old oaks and elms outside the city limits. It’s quiet except for a dog barking somewhere down the block, but the back of Sam’s neck itches like he’s being watched, but he doesn’t see anyone looking out the windows or lingering in the yards.

They shouldn’t be surprised that a podcaster covering weird cases would gravitate to the scene of a high-profile case while she was in town, but reaching out to the victim’s family so soon seems aggressive. Sam has faith that Jody can handle herself around this woman, but they can’t be sure her deputies won’t pull a Doug and mention their involvement on past cases.

Maybe familiarity over the years has made them sloppy, and not only with Jody. They can only criss-cross the U.S. so many times without running into the same people, the same law enforcement officers, or use the same alias without someone noticing. It was inevitable that someone might put the pieces together.

Ten minutes later, Dean jogs up from the other direction and they climb inside, slamming the doors shut at the same time. Dean tosses a business card onto Sam’s lap.

“What’s this?” The card reads _Emily Ramirez, Executive Producer and Podcaster, Oddball Productions_ with an address and phone number in Providence, Rhode Island.

“Said she was in town to do some interviews and heard about their case,” Dean says. “Wanted to offer condolences to the family and give them some support.”

“Yeah, right. More like get a scoop on their next story,” Sam replies back with disdain. “What a vulture.”

“That’s where it gets interesting,” Dean says. He flips another business card on Sam’s lap. “Look at this.”

Sam turns up the second card over: _Aftermath, Counseling Services for victims and families of unexplained crimes_. “Counseling? What’s this?”

“The podcaster was chatting up the victim’s mother. Laying it on strong about how she knows what it's likes. That this support group helps families of victims who are brutally murdered. Strange and unexplained kind of murders,” Dean says. “Sounds like this group knows about our kind of cases.”

“How’d you get the cards?” Sam asks.

“My usual charm,” Dean says. “Also, the podcaster gave Jody some extra cards.”

Sam shrugs and examines the Aftermath one again. “Weird. Never heard of such a thing. Think some hunters set this up?”

Dean shakes his head. “Maybe ex-victims? I don’t know. But something was off about the way she was pushing the card into this lady’s hands. Like she was selling Amway or something.”

“Some people see grief and want to help. Some see it as an opportunity,” Sam says as he tucks the cards into John’s journal in the glove compartment.

Dean starts up the car. “Yeah, and some people suck.”

* * *

_—A lot of true crime podcasters interview family members. They want to draw a picture of the devastation of losing a loved one. What I find is that most family members replay the details in their mind, trying to make sense of what happened, of what they could have done differently. But what if the details don’t make sense? What if the survivor saw something that they can’t fully explain?_

_“I saw the thing,” Allen Jones says, "and it wasn't a cougar." He and his brother had spent a weekend fishing and camping when something attacked their campsite. “The cops tried to tell me it was too dark to see and that a cougar attacked my brother in his tent. I know what I saw, and that was no cat. Besides, how many cougars only rip out a liver to eat?”_

_“My brother dying created a hole in me,” he says. “I went looking for answers and found only questions. I also found other people in the same situation and decided that it was my job to help them deal with the unexplainable nature of their loss.”_

_In 2016, Allen created Aftermath, a paranormal survival support group whose mission is to help those survivors and families to cope with answers that are beyond the normal—_

* * *

The motel room door swings open, and they step inside the doorway to take in an explosion of color. The ratty green carpet blends into a vividly-painted mural on the wall with palm trees and ferns and a herd of dinosaurs looking at a volcano erupting in the distance.

“Whoa,” Dean replies at last. “Land of the Lost. I miss motel rooms with this kind of style.”

“Style? Like sheets with holes and mold in the bathroom? No, thanks,” Sam says as he throws the weapons duffel on the small kitchenette table. He stares up at the mural and makes a face. “Eh, reminds me too much of Kaia’s world. Lizard,” he says and shudders. Dean grimaces in shared disgust.

“Which reminds me, what do you want for dinner?” Dean asks as he throws his bag on one of the beds. “It’s nice to get out on the road again, working cases. Maybe you and me should just keep driving, doing the Jack Kerouac thing. Miracle likes to stay with Max in town. He’ll be fine.”

“But what about your memory foam mattress?” Sam replies. “Won’t it forget you?”

Dean glares at him and then up at the dinosaurs which in turn stare up at the volcano. He sets a large paper bag on the table, and two bottles clink together inside.

Sam looks over at the noise. “When did you have time to hit a liquor store?”

“I’m a boy scout, Sammy. Always prepared,” Dean says. “Plus it helps to have a stash at home.” He pauses as he pulls one of the bottles out. “It’s weird after all these years that we have a home. I thought this—” he waves his hand at the four walls of the motel room, “—would always be our life. With Chuck gone, things seemed to have calmed down. Feels like we spend more time at the bunker than on the road.”

“It’s been three weeks, Dean,” Sam says. “And there will always be monsters.”. He pulls his laptop out and a transcript of the podcast that talked about their FBI file. He smiles wistfully. “Wonder if the FBI mentions Cas or if it’s just old file notes from Henriksen from back in the day.”

Dean unwraps the two courtesy glasses wrapped in questionable plastic on the table, fills one with two fingers of whisky and hands it to Sam. “Henricksen would have thought Cas was some crazy conspiracy buff and our tax accountant.”

Sam takes the glass and smells it. He starts to take a sip but hesitates.

“What?” Dean asks.

“Just thinking about Cas. Again.” Sam cradles the glass between his hands and sighs. “The sacrifice he made. Would have been nice to say good-bye.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, then scrubs his face with his palm. “Things happened so fast that I didn’t even—,” he stops himself and then salutes Sam with his glass, “Well, that doesn’t matter in the end. Here’s to Cas.”

They both drink. Dean nods at the prehistoric mural on the wall with its exploding volcano. “Unlike these poor bastards, it’s nice not to face the end of the world again.”

  


“As far as we know,” Sam says and pulls the business cards out of his pocket. “Speaking of weird, why would a podcaster peddle the services of a support group? Especially so soon after a murder?”

“Guess you better listen to those podcasts again while I make a dinner run.”

Sam’s cell phone buzzes and he pulls it out to see Jody’s name on the screen. Dean stops in the doorway and waits as Sam hits the speakerphone. “Hey, Jody, what’s up?”

“Finally got rid of that woman asking for an interview. What a pest,” she says. “Hope you’re not too settled in yet. Just got an anonymous tip on our perp, and the informant will only meet with me at this abandoned warehouse outside of the city limits.”

“You know it’s a trap, right?” Dean says from across the room.

“Of course,” Jody replies. “Which is why I’m calling you guys in as back-up instead of my deputies. The family is a mess, and I can’t give them the real answers on this. The least I can do is handle this quickly and quietly.”

“You got it. Just give us the address and a few minutes to saddle up,” Dean says, and Sam hangs up. “Why is it always some dirty old warehouse in the middle of nowhere?” he sighs. “I’d love to have a case without risk of tetanus.”

“Hey, you’re the one nostalgic for the past tonight,” Sam says.

* * *

They pull in behind Jody’s cruiser on the main road. Calling this building a warehouse is generous, Sam thinks, it’s more of a series of tacked-together garages around an older wooden storehouse in the middle. A silver four-door Mercedes sits out front.

“You okay to do this?” Dean says.

“I’m fine,” Sam says. His rough voice makes Dean pause but they walk on to stand by Jody.

“That’s the victim’s car,” Jody whispers. Dean goes to hand Jody some silver bullets but she shakes her head and pulls some out of her own pocket. “Made my own last night, thanks. No movement in or out of the buildings in the last fifteen minutes.”

Behind them on the road, a car approaches and they turn off their flashlights and watch as the headlights move on slowly.

“Plenty of places for this thing to hide inside,” Dean comments as he loads his Taurus. “You and Sam take the front entrance, and I’ll go around back.”

Sam nods and Dean disappears into the brush along the left side of the property. They give him a few minutes before heading in.

“I keep thinking about the way the body was laid out. This guy wanted to make a show of it,” Jody says quietly to Sam. “Then leaving the stolen car out front for us to find? Either this werewolf is overly dramatic or this is a trap.”

Sam pulls out his own gun and holds it at the ready as they approach the front door. Jody opens the door silently and they wait a beat before proceeding in. Inside, it smells of wood. The floor is covered with dust and old shavings, and the workbenches inside have vises attached and a few rusty saws hang on wall pegs. In the dust, Sam makes out some bootprints heading off to the back; he nudges Jody and points to them, and she nods back. Jody could be right about this - it feels too easy.

“Sheriff, you brought company.” The voice floats out of the shadows. Jody pulls up to attention next to Sam; they both scan the room but don’t see anything in the dark corners.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Jody says.

“It’s a shame,” the voice says. “I would have preferred playing with you. Imagine it - a prominent citizen and the Sioux Falls sheriff taken down by a mysterious killer? That would have made the headlines,” it says. The voice seems to be on the move but the acoustics of the odd-shaped room makes it tough to get a bead on its position.

“No mystery,” Sam says. He sees a movement that’s Dean entering the room from the back. “Just another monster to be put down.”

“Ah, I see. Hunters. But that’s where you’re wrong - I’m not just one monster,” the voice says. Sam looks up at the loft storage space above, wondering if the voice is coming from there. “We are many.”

When he glances back down, a shadow steps out behind Dean’s position.

“Dean!” Sam yells. Dean twists around, trying to get off a shot before being knocked to the ground and the werewolf disappears into the stack of dusty shelves and boxes. Dean scrambles up and Jody follows him into the shadows while Sam looks for a way up into the loft.

“Dean? As in Sam and Dean Winchester?” the voice from above gloats. “Well, well. Not just hunters, _celebrity_ hunters.” Sam spots an old wooden staircase going up and climbs silently as the voice gets louder. “We know all about the two of you.”

Near the edge of the loft, the second werewolf peers down below, a smile on his face. Sam could take the shot but the creature’s comment about being part of a group plays over in his head. When a gunshot sounds below, Sam uses the distraction to cover the distance between them and shoves it off the edge; it falls nine feet down, crashing into a shelf and boxes before landing with a thud on the concrete floor..

“Dean! Over here, there’s another one,” Sam yells as he heads down the stairs. Dean and Jody have already moved into position, guns pointed at the were, and Sam waves them off. “Don’t kill him yet.”

Still conscious, the were grimaces as Dean drags it into a discarded chair in the center of the storeroom while Jody cuffs its hands behind its back.

“We are many, huh?” Sam says and kicks away a gun that fell out of the werewolf’s hand. He searches its pockets and comes up with a jumbled wad of cash and a familiar business card - Aftermath Counseling Services. “What is this?” he says, holding the card in front of the were’s face.

“Found it,” it says and spits out a glob of blood that lands an inch from Jody’s boot.

“Right. Big coincidence,” Sam says.

Sam hands the card to Dean whose eyebrows go up as he reads it. “What would a monster want with a monster support group?”

Jody looks as confused as Sam feels, and takes the business card out of Dean’s hands to study it more closely.

“Those poor, poor victims,” the were says, looking into Jody’s eyes, his voice as oily as a grease slick and his face a mask of fake sympathy. “We take their family members, we feed, we build our ranks, but all they have left is loss and pain. Oh, and lots and lots of money.” He spits out more blood on the floor. “If only there were people out there who understood them, took care of them.”

Dean rolls his eyes and then steps in to pistol-whip its face. “Where’s the rest of your pack?”

“We are everywhere,” it says and flashes a bloody, sharp-toothed smile.

“Your ranks?” Sam asks, circling back to the were’s comment from before. “You said that before. How many werewolves are you talking about?”

It laughs again but it turns into a ragged, harsh cough. “Ain’t just wolves. Bloodsuckers. Shapeshifters. We. Are. Many. And you hunters can’t do anything about it.” It looks over at its dead partner on the other side of the room and its eyes blaze, not with the love of chaos and pain that Sam has seen before but with righteous purpose. “Take one of us out and two more will come to get ya.”

This time, Dean is the one that laughs. “Okay, Hail Hydra. Save the bad guy speech. We’ve heard it before. Either tell us what we want to know or don’t. It’s all the same for you in the end.”

The were growls up at him and snaps its sharp teeth, rattling the handcuffs behind his back.

“Holy shit,” another voice calls out from the doorway. The three of them turn their guns in that direction. Emily the podcaster raises her hands up in surrender and steps towards them, her eyes fixated on the werewolf in the chair. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Emily?” Jody says. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Emily drags her gaze away from the monster to look at Sam and Dean. “I saw the car. Couldn’t believe my luck.”

“You followed us?” Dean says. “You stupid idiot.”

Her eyes widen as she focuses on the gun in Dean’s hand. “You… you’re not going to kill me, are you?”

“No!” Sam says, while Dean mutters, “I wish.”

“Now is not a good time for this. You need to leave,” Sam finishes.

“Oh, hell no,” she says. “Finally, proof that I was right. I’m not leaving.”

Jody speaks up to break the moment. “Listen, if you keep an eye on him, I’ll run out to the truck and call my office. Maybe there’s arrest records or known accomplices and we can track—”

Despite the broken ribs, the were takes advantage of the distraction and makes a surprise run for the door. Its hands are still cuffed behind its back but the were’s strong and agile. It charges Jody, who stands closest, and head butts her hard to the face, and charges Emily who stands between it and the door, plowing its shoulder into her chest to send her sprawling before escaping out the door.

“Goddamnit,” Jody bellows, waving off Sam who leans down to check on her while Dean races outside after the were.

Seconds later, a single shot rings out. Emily scrambles across the floor, clutching her phone to her chest, as Dean walks back inside.

“You okay, Jody?” Dean says as he holsters his gun.

“Why am I always the one who gets broken arms and busted noses?” Jody complains, gingerly touching her bleeding nose as she stands.

“Because you’re the toughest of all of us,” Dean says.

“Was that really a werewolf?” Emily is out of breath, and a whirlwind of fear and excitement cross her face.

Sam helps her to stand. “You’re lucky you're not dead.”

Emily spots the other dead werewolf sprawled on the other side of the warehouse. Her face pales as she notices the pool of blood under its head. “Guess I am.” She tries to stand up but her knees give out and Dean catches her arm. “Are there any more?”

“No, you're safe," Dean says and guides her to the door. "Let's get you outside."

Jody takes a Kleenex out of her pocket and dabs at the blood still pouring from her nose. "What are you gonna do about that one?"

Sam sighs. "We'll figure out something."

* * *

The waitress tops off Emily’s coffee and drops a plate of Joe’s Special to the side of the laptop on the table. “Better eat it while it’s hot, hon,” the waitress says, eyeing the computer in front of Emily.

“Thanks, I will,” she says and then turns back to type in a few more notes. Before yesterday, all of her research on these cases was theoretical. Her beliefs about the supernatural as the cause of all tragedies seem darkly poetic. Now, she knows that it is all real. Being honest with herself, she isn’t sure how she feels about that.

A shadow blocks the light, and she looks up at a wall of flannel. “Mind if we join you?” Dean says, sliding into the booth across from her. Sam sits down on Emily’s side, making it an uncomfortable squeeze in the small booth. She takes a mental note to revise her physical descriptions because both of these guys are much bigger than she expected.

“Hey, guys. Want some coffee?” She tempers her surprise and anxiety at their sudden appearance with excitement. “I could ask you a few questions.”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah, we’re heading out right now.”

“Another case? Where?” Emily asks. “Maybe we could set up a time for me to interview you by phone?”

“No interview,” Sam replies, “and you need to pull the podcast.”

“Why? This is going to be huge. People should know about what’s out there.”

“How would that help?” Sam says. “Besides, we can’t hunt these things if all your followers are tracking us everywhere.”

Emily blushes and ducks her head. “It’s not that many,” she mumbles.

“What do you mean?” Dean says.

“Followers for the podcast. There’s only 218 so far.” Emily looks up at them, pleading. “But with this, I could really—”

Dean slaps the table. “I knew it. Just you and a few other nerds listening to this crap.”

“Not the point, Dean,” Sam says. “You seem like a good person, Emily. Why don’t you find another story, another mystery, to focus on? Something that will get you more followers and will let us do our job. We have to do our work away from the spotlight to save more people, like your mom.”

Emily starts to respond then pauses. All her life, she’s wanted nothing but answers to what happened to her family. Between the memory of her mom, the werewolf’s teeth last night, and Sam’s vaguely threatening bulk wedged into the booth next to her, Emily makes a decision. “Well, I did get a lead on the Exeter incident in New Hampshire.”

Sam’s face brightens up. “That’s perfect. You’re talented, Emily. You’ll be fine. And you’ll have at least one fan who will listen.”

“Listen,” Dean says as they stand up. “Sheriff Jody promised to look into your mom’s case and see what she can find out. She’s good people.”

“Thank you,” Emily replies, but she doesn’t want them to leave without a final request. “Maybe when you’re finally ready to talk about your side of the story, I can get an exclusive?”

The brothers look at each other. “Maybe,” Sam said. “Someday.”

* * *

Sam and Dean climb into the Impala and watch Emily drink her coffee through the restaurant window.

“Exeter incident?” Dean asks, and his curiosity makes Sam smile.

“UFOs in New Hampshire. That should keep her out of our hair for a while.”

“Perfect,” Dean says. He jabs the keys in the ignition and then falls somber. “I’m tired of people telling our story. This podcaster. The FBI. Chuck, who’s probably skulking around out there, plotting his revenge.”

“Maybe,” Sam replies. “I’m less worried about him and more worried about this—” He flips the support group card in his fingers to show Dean. The corner is frayed and has a few specks of werewolf blood on it. Another phone number was written in ink on the back - a burner phone that Sam tried before they walked out to the car. “How about we find out what this is all about?”

Dean pulls a u-turn on the road, and once again, they’re heading out into the morning sun. But the content feeling from yesterday is gone, replaced by the muscle memory of working a case.

Dean grips the wheel, focused as he drives, and Sam scans every car that passes. As they head out, Sam wonders who might have listened to the show, who might recognize them, who might be watching them, in their big black car.

  


**Author's Note:**

> NEXT ON EPISODE TWO, AFTERMATH:
> 
> Sam and Dean investigate Aftermath, a support group for victims of the supernatural and run into a familiar face.
> 
> Subscribe to [Frontierland_Productions here on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frontierland_Productions/pseuds/Frontierland_Productions) so you don't miss an episode or follow the [Frontierland Productions tumblr](https://frontierlandproductions.tumblr.com/) for more news and fanworks. 


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